They’re Coming to Get You

It’s Halloween—that time of year when I start craving horror films like junk food. Of course, I watch horror movies year round, actually gravitate to them before I do most other films—but something about the seasonal weather change and the holiday, kick the addiction into overdrive.

I’m not talking your average horror movies here. I refuse to risk what little viewing time I have on some BS like Paranormal Activity 19. There are so many new horror movies popping up these days that I have two choices—either wait, and let time dictate their worthiness, or rely solely on an established director’s reputation.

Side notes and conflict: I love Guillermo del Toro, and I really want to see Crimson Peak at a theater. But there are so many CGI effects in the commercials that it looks as fake as the last Jurassic Park movie. And then there is American Horror Story which uses less CGI, but more in-your-face horror and gore than anything I have ever seen on television. But its excessiveness undermines its credibility, and people like me start growing bored and listing all the proven sources that the series is “paying homage” to—re: Ripping Off.

Yet another side note: I am passionate about The Walking Dead, so much so that I could probably dedicate a blog to nothing but the show. Everything excluding the concept of it is original and expertly executed. But TWD is not what I had in mind for today’s blogpost. No. I am here to talk about the granddaddy of all things zombie: Night of the Living Dead.

I gave up a few Octobers back on trying to catch great horror movies on television. Granted, there are occasional gems broadcasts on channels like TCM, AMC, and the like, but most air closer to the 31^st, and rarely will your schedule line up with the film you really want to see. No—as I said before, this time of year I don’t squander time on lesser performers. I break out my own DVD collection. I’ve had time so far to watch six classics (in my mind, at least), and I started the whole shebang off with George Romero’s seminal film.

I first saw Night of the Living Dead on VHS in the early 1980s. I’m fairly certain I saw it after having seen its sequel, Dawn of the Dead, at a midnight movie showing at the Kingston Four in Knoxville, TN. Videotape was a relatively new market then—movie rental stores privately owned and expensive—and title availability was nowhere near as deep as the selection we have today. I read Fangoria magazine regularly, long anticipating the movie’s iconic black and whites stills to lurch forth from its pages and on to my television screen. I simply had to see the movie that was banned in (pick a number) countries!

It did not live up to its expectations. Not then.

The print was horrible, the acting and dialogue stilted. Nothing was all that shocking—certainly not enough to garner its reputation. The lead female, Judith O’Dea, was so annoying that I wanted Ben to toss her out the front door and feed her to the zombies, sparing us all the melodrama.

But later that night, when the lights were out and I was trying to sleep, the film kept creeping back into my subconscious. While watching shadows dance in the dark cross my ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder: What if it happened right now? What would I do?

Since then I have seen the film countless times. I own more than one remastered version, pristine prints, juiced-up audio, and extras galore. I became a dedicated fan of Richard Matheson (yet another blog topic), writer of the classic, I Am Legend—a book about a man alone in a world of vampires—which George Romero has often said was the inspiration of the film.

My obsession with Night of the Living Dead has gone so far as that I have written a zombie apocalypse novel myself (Will to Live: The Dead Next Door, to be published in 2016), knowing full-well that the market is inundated with such pulp, and filled to the brim with some of the worst writing ever.

So, why—why has this b-movie concept of cannibal corpses taken root and grown in me for the last 3+ decades? Why has the idea now germinated in the masses, making shows like The Walking Dead immensely popular? What is it about dead folks eating the living that keeps bringing us back for more?

I cannot say for others, but I came to my own answers while writing the aforementioned novel. It is not a new revelation, nor a glamorous one. In fact, it likely hearkens back to the Neanderthals: We are obsessed with our biggest fear—our own mortality. What happens to us when we die? Night of the Living Dead is not only a metaphor for that age-old question, it is the living (ha-ha) embodiment of that confrontation. No, we won’t rise and eat people—but we will wither away and deteriorate like the shambling corpses in pursuit. Death is always chasing us, and it will always catch us in the end.

I don’t want to leave you on such a downer. So, I also have a theory about my obsession with apocalyptic fiction—not necessarily zombie apocalypse, but definitely the collapse of civilization that that particular sub-genre resides in—however, you might not like it either…

Remember when you were a child, and your parents used to nag you about how things were better when they were growing up? Well, that trait is inherent is us as well. Face it. Wouldn’t it be nice if the world were a simpler place, like when we were growing up? Think about it—no constant communication, no Wi-Fi, no computers, no cellphones, and no Facebook.  Do we really need six hundred channels on the TV to choose from, reality TV, and TV on demand? Everything now is at our fingertips—there is no mystery, no anticipation. Have we become spoiled, complacent, perhaps vulnerable?

Wouldn’t it be nice to just read a book without having to worry about the all the current, frivolous interruptions in our daily life? I think so.

…Maybe worth killing zombies for.

Shameless Plugs:

I don’t write poetry often, but I have a creepy-cool Halloween poem for free: click here. Please vote and/or comment on it.

The first two chapters (soon to be a third) of Will to Live: The Dead Next Door are free as well: click here. Please vote and/or comment on it.

Stories available for purchase are on Amazon: click here. Thanks in advance for your purchase and please, please, please write an honest review.

Happy Halloween!

TWS

On Success

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”  

–Ernest Hemingway

I want to be a writer. Actually, I am a writer. I have been writing for a very long time—stretching way back to my high school years in the early 1980s. I got serious about it in the mid-1990s, publishing a few shorts here and there. Then I let it slide until a little over 2 years ago. Now, I write pretty much every day for at least an hour (constraints with my job), and I feel like I am producing quality work consistently.

I believe this to be successful, perhaps in an organic way—considering that I am more concerned with quality than quantity, and don’t stress too much about having new material out there every other week. Would I like to make a living at writing? Certainly. But I think legacy is more important, and I would rather have excellence in the periphery, than slush in the mainstream—especially when I am long gone and unable to defend myself.

The reason I bring this up is that I have been reading several books on e-publishing—the majority consensus being the exact opposite: quantity over quality. Write fast, publish more, market more, and make money. This mindset crosses over into another pet peeve of mine: reality TV culture and social website inundation—people shouting in the dark, begging for attention, pushing buttons… all in the name of fame.

But that’s another can of Alpo. I want to talk about success.

Being successful doesn’t necessarily mean being famous and making lots of money. Being successful, to me, means doing what you love, enjoying it, and learning and growing from that experience. I’m already doing that. The problem is: I want more time for it—and the only way to accomplish this is to develop my passion into a career with compensation, or at least substantial supplemental income. I believe this is where the confusion over the meaning of success lies.

I write slowly. I am a perfectionist and sometimes agonize over the simplest sentence. I finished a draft of a novel over a year ago and I am still in revisions (an hour a day, remember). I was recently told by a professional author that the two sides of my brain were fighting, that my inner-critic was scrutinizing every detail, self-sabotaging myself, and that the first draft was the important part, not to sweat the rewrites. I find this appalling. Publishing a first draft with a light going over is kind of like leaving the house naked, all imperfections for the world to see. No. I disagree... and not respectfully. Funny enough, the same author (in his book on e-publishing successfully), mentioned more than once that there is no correct writing method. Everyone is different. Do what works. Develop your routine. Trust the process, etc.

WTF?

So, now I skip the parts in these books about the writing process. The feedback I get from those I trust is good. I know how to write. I’m just slow. I’m less apt at marketing (loathe it, actually)—so, I pick and choose the sales tips from these books that I feel are relevant without being too intrusive to people who respect me and/or my work. I hope that the combination of the two will one day lead to my having more time for what I love.

Will that make me successful? 

No. It will make me more successful.

TWS

PS: If you’re curious about the novel mentioned above, the first two chapters are up on Wattpad for free. Please vote and/or comment which will result in more people seeing it. Click here.

'Salem's Lot, a Lot

I read 'Salem's Lot in 1977. It was the first Stephen King book I ever read. I might have sampled some stories in Night Shift prior, but he only had a few titles back then, and it was definitely the first novel of his that I took on. My mother had read it and I became intrigued when I witnessed her shriek and hurl the paperback across the room (I later found out that she was at the part when Marjorie Glick sits up on the morgue table). Thus began my longest affair with any writer ever. 

I'm not sure how many times I have perused the book since. I used to think revisiting novels was a waste of time, but now I do it not only for research into the mechanics, but for pure pleasure as well. I've compared great horror—novels and film—to comfort food, and 'Salem's Lot is no exception. Rereading the book, to me, is like slipping into a favorite recliner, or a warm fireplace on a rainy Autumn day, or having a delicious piece of cake... maybe red velvet.

I'm sure I've read the novel at least five times—once for every decade I've been alive—maybe more, though it's difficult to pinpoint the reasons for its magnetism. It was by no means the first book I ever completed. Perhaps it was the first that I ever thoroughly enjoyed. I relish the nostalgia of the small-town setting, in a decade long before technology kept everyone connected. King himself has described the book as Dracula comes to Peyton Place. Maybe its draw is similar to the addiction people have with soap operas, a voyeuristic peek into the secret lives of middle America (or in this case New England).

Several chapters have become nothing short of iconic (some enhanced by Toby Hooper's television miniseries of 1979). Who could forget:

Mike Ryerson's in the open grave of Danny Glick ("Stop staring at me.").

Danny Glick at Mark Petrie's window ("Let me in.").

Ryerson returning to Matt Burke's bedroom ("You'll sleep with the dead, teacher.").

Marjorie Glick sitting up on the morgue table ("Danny, are you there?...").

And the list goes on. I don't know why these scenes stay with me. King was young when he wrote them—good, but nowhere near the writer he has matured into. Yet this is the book that immediately comes to my mind when he's mentioned. It's magic.

After rereading the novel last month, I decided to watch both television adaptions again—the Tobe Hooper version from 1979, and the 2004 version starring Rob Lowe (skipping the unofficial, un-watchable Cohen sequel, A Return to Salem's Lot (1987). Neither of these two versions capture the overall magic, but both have their charms. 

Hooper's Lot does a good job creating the close-knit feel of the community, but sacrifices substance for scares by turning Barlow into an unintelligible knockoff of Murnau's Nosferatu. The Rob Lowe version has an excellent cast (Donald Sutherland, Rutger Hauer, Samantha Mathis, Andre Braugher), exposes more of the darker underbelly of the community, but manages somehow to mangle the story through modernization—as if the writer is saying, the book is great, but I can do better by changing it—a ridiculous Hollywood paradox (territorial pissing is what I call it—a term I borrow from the late, great Kurt Cobain).

Horrible movie adaptions and Stephen King are in most cases synonymous, and when inevitably admonished by a reader that a movie version has "ruined his book," King simply answers—and I paraphrase:

No it didn't. See. There they all are, lined up on the shelf.

And so, as always, I return to the book because the essence remains unchanged within the binding. And with this recent reading—coupling, again, his lush prose with my mind's eye, I found the answer: 

The magic is in the collaboration.

TWS